My Idol

It's high time I wrote about this. What keeps me from it? It's ugly. It's baring; embarrassing. It's stupid. It makes me feel like a selfish and silly five-year-old. But it's threatening to take me down.

When you talk about things and let them go, there is a healing that takes place. (And don't put on your Oprah glasses yet, ladies. I'm not that kind of girl.) When you take what was a secret and expose it, it loses its hold over you. It's no longer a secret with strength. It automatically becomes weak.

I was a fat child, a fat adolescent, a fat teenager, a fat college student. Fat.
F-A-T. Yup. Loved food. Ate too much, too often. Had nothing to do with my parents' eating habits (i.e. a gynormous Mexican meal followed by ice cream on the way home) or the fact that they are both grossly overweight... But I digress.

Stats:
1st grade: 80 pounds
4th grade: 5'4" 150 pounds (taller than most of my teachers)
8th grade: 5'7" 165 pounds
High school: 5'9" 200 pounds
My freshman year in college: 5'9" 250 pounds

What I learned:
Fat = slow, slobbish, dumb, conspicuous, ugly, disgraceful, klutzy, clumsy, smelly, weak.
Thin = quick, neat, sharp, dulcet, beautiful, graceful, fastidious, lilting, sinuous, popular, strong.
Fat = You don't belong.
Thin = Welcome!
Reinforced by? = commentary from my Dad, Mom, grandmother, grandmother's little-old-lady friends, boys, girls, TV, books, ads, after-school-specials, magazines, movies, billboards, cartoons, life in general.

I had to make it on brains, wit, personality and determination. Funny thing is, I didn't care so much. I acted in and directed plays at school, wrote, sketched, read; I did my thing and didn't care who was looking. I knew I was fat, but I didn't pine after the star quarterback -- I didn't care about the star quarterback! He was boring and dumb. I didn't care about homecoming queen, the student council, the honor society or the cheerleading squad. That was death to me.

What I wanted was a viable life of creativity and freedom. I wanted unsupervised expression of my passion for art, literature and philosophy (as tenuous a hold as I had at 18). I wanted my own world. I wanted out. And I still wanted beauty and all of that, but it was a secondary concern. It seemed unimportant. I still wore makeup and jacked-up hair; I still loved earrings and bracelets... I just thought people would love me for me. Period. I didn't think about bikinis and getting a fabulous tan. I stayed inside and watched movies. It was more fun.

But in the early part of 1996, I developed a nasty crush on someone who was much smaller than I. And I was convinced that if I became thin, I would be noticed. So I stopped eating much of anything.

Three months later, I ended up in the hospital at 3 am with severe stomach cramps. The ER doctor who examined me noted my 60-pound weight loss, bruises and thinning hair and then... congratulated me. *smirk* Thanks, Doc.

But I got noticed. And to an extent, I got what I wanted. But my crush ended up being a jerk. Not only to me, but to girls much prettier and thinner. Hmm...

In 1998, at 180 pounds, I developed another crush. It wasn't an insane crush. But it did develop into a relationship. This guy was very fit. And creative, and interesting... Pretty cool! Fat girl's doing well for herself...

Until...

Fitness tips began insinuating themselves into our conversations... Then food suggestions, unsolicited commentary, dissertations on women, pregnancy and weight gain; women, marriage, and weight gain; women and weight gain. Weight gain. Weight. Because this man was also instrumental in guiding me toward the Church, I felt it was my good-girl duty to conform, get with the program, just do it! Everyone said so. Everyone agreed.

By 2002, I was 150 pounds of muscle and a comfortable size 6. I worked out 4 or 5 days a week and was a militant calorie counter. I was obsessed with fitness. I no longer cared who was looking, I was finally strong. Forget the movies, I'm going to kickboxing class!

I began tanning. My hair was long and full and curly. I did everything to look the part: Beautiful. But no matter how fit or thin I got, the man who had helped start me on this path would not commit. After 4 years of discipline, work, striving, and crying -- I spent the fittest summer of my life alone.

Here's the scene: I'm at the beach with friends. I'm little Miss size six, tanned, perfect-makeup-outfit-jewelry-hair girl with killer arms. And? Nothing. Except jerks. Plus, I look exactly like every other girl at the sugar shack. Every single one. I realize I'm going to have to survive on brains, wit, personality, and determination. But even then, the pickings are slim.

So wait, all this work to catch a prince and they still turn out to be frogs? Even when I can't do anything else to look better short of plastic surgery? Hmm...

Even though I'd lost 100 pounds, I didn't feel it. I still felt like I was beating myself against a brick wall. I didn't have what I wanted; what They promised me; what They told me this was supposed to be like. I looked more like a billboard than I ever had in my life, but I still felt empty. Something still eluded me. Something was still missing, just beyond my reach. I was just too dumb or blind to catch it.

And I had no quality of life. My whole life was fitness and nutrition. I was also now obsessed with Jesus, which was pretty cool. But that too, was framed by an unhealthy environment. I was still the little girl being ostracized. My Pastor bellowed it from the pulpit. He said he was speaking for God. The church staff clapped and nodded and amen-ed. The rest of us were evil. We weren't good enough. We didn't measure up. No matter what we did.

I still didn't fit.

[Enter, the Knight.]

No, he didn't come along and fix me. That's why I love him. But he did accept me exactly as I am. He risked it all and offered me himself. He stuck his neck out and was authentic from word one. All he expected from me in return was the same courtesy.

He's never mentioned my weight in a negative way to me. He supports me in my efforts for self-improvement, but I know nothing in our relationship hinges on what size my clothing is. The only thing he pushes me toward is expressive, creative work. Because he believes that I am talented and knows that's what I crave. And when he got down on one knee and asked me to be his wife, I bawled. Because I knew I was finally accepted. I knew where I belonged. I knew he would always do his best to support me, be with me, and love me -- even when we're yelling at each other. What a beginning. What a future. What a relief.

I know (and expect) that things will not be perfect. I know that marriage is not a billboard or a TV commercial. I'm very aware of reality in that way. I can allow for flaws and imperfections in relationships. I do in all of mine. With my friends, family, co-workers, strangers, clergy, just about everyone. I recognize and accept flaws as natural variation, an extension of free will. God lets everyone do it. I do, too.

Except in myself. I have to be perfect. I have to hold up the entire universe with my perfect behavior. If I don't something bad will happen, either to me or to those I hold dear. People will be upset with me. God will turn away. And it'll be my fault when things go wrong.

I have no idea when I became the second Incarnation but... *wink*

And I found that my fitness and nutrition ideals were very hard to maintain. I still work out 4 or 5 days a week, 45 minutes at a time, but have relaxed my caloric intake from 1500 to around 1800 (sometimes 2000 *gasp!*) per day. Now I'm 160 pounds and a size 9. And this is where I'm stuck. At 5'9", I'm still at a healthy weight and I have lots of muscle to move me along. And I know I could be smaller, but when you've been on a diet for 7 years, it gets old having to watch and weigh every single thing that goes in your mouth. And, dammit, I'm hungry!

Yet with a wedding coming up in October, I'm not comfortable with this size 9 thing . I want to be back to where I was during that tanned, size 6 summer. (That summer my family kept telling me I was too thin.) If I'm not, something bad will happen. My guests will be disappointed. I will reflect poorly on my husband. My family will not be as proud of me. I will not look back on my wedding day with as much joy.

How stupid. How self-centered. How ridiculous.

I know that I create my own reality, intellectually at least. But... it's hard to let go of this choke hold I feel I have to maintain on my life. I want so much to be able to not think about calories and how people perceive me. I want so much to be comfortable in my own skin -- even skin that sags from being radically shrunken. I want so much to tune every negative message out -- or better still, take what I might perceive as negative and turn it around. I want to let go of this and look back fondly on this with wisdom and humor. "I remember that. That was so funny. *Sigh* So glad I got over that."

I want to be able to give myself credit for what I've accomplished.

Sometimes I am free and unconscious of my body. Those are the most precious moments in my life -- when I am untethered to a frame and I am all eyes and ears and sensations. Funny thing is, that's usually when I'm out jog-walking with my iPod cranked up.

And I've let God in on the idea of my giving up. I've told Him over and over that I'm finished, I'm done. That I refuse to be ruled by something so petty and inconsequential. That I want Him to guide me. That I don't want to be my own god anymore. And I've asked Him to heal me. All I need to do now is really let Him. The only condition I have is that it not involve gaining weight. *sigh*

It's mindboggling how I could spend this much valuable time on myself and then rail against the hypocrisy of others so loudly, isn't it?

What a faker.

But we all are. We're all fakers in some way or another. That's some comfort, I guess. I know I am surrounded by a host of imperfect people who love each other (and me) despite their imperfections. And I am surrounded and infused by a God who is Love itself.

And that Love cannot be sized.